With a Magic Like Thee
by Willofthewisp
Summary: Although he may not be aware of it at the time, those four months she was there were the best of any Dark One's life.
1. Prologue

**A/N: My first OUAT fic, mostly structured to be short snippets of time, one-shot length, that Belle spends with Rumpelstiltskin per their original deal. The pattern and chronology will show as the story progresses. I don't own the characters.**

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_The stable reeked, the armor clanked—she would be caught. On some level, she knew she would be. It had all gone too smoothly, finding armor that fit, saving discarded arrows until twenty-five filled a quiver, and even creeping out of her room, going down, down, down the spiral staircase out of the tower all the way to the stables. All that remained was to saddle up and ride out to..._

_ "Belle!"_

_ She hopped about to keep from falling. She had been just ready to mount the horse when her father, nightcap and all, stood with his mouth hanging open at the stable entrance._

_ "How did you..."_

_ "I was tired and planned on retiring early." He waved a piece of paper at her. "I take it you expected me to see this much later in the night, didn't you, after you had a few hours' head start?"_

_ "It just doesn't seem right that everyone else has to fight," she said._

_ "What on earth were you thinking? You'd rather go kill yourself than marry Gaston?"_

_ "Why are you so certain I wouldn't make it?" she asked, pride stinging._

_ "Come now, Belle. You can't bear to crush a spider much less ram a spear into a man," he sighed, taking a seat at one of the benches. He motioned for her to join him. "Combat aside, what bothers you so?"_

_ "Is there..." Come on then, she encouraged herself. He did ask you what was wrong. "There isn't a way to get out of an arranged marriage, is there?"_

_ "Not really," her father said, shaking his head with a gentle smile. "There are lots of ways, but they end up causing more trouble than they're worth. Does Gaston have no good points at all?"_

_ "I'm sure he does. I just haven't found them yet." What a cruel thing to say. Shame on you. She twirled a lock of hair and tucked it back into her braid. "I'd rather face the ogres."_

_ She prepared to reassure her father again, but he kept reticent, his eyes heavy with burden. His hands clasped together with his thumb wringing the other._

_ "Things have reached that point," he said. "It's time."_

_ "All your counselors advised against it," she argued. "You can't."_

_ "What choice do we have? It's only a matter of time before those brutes come terrorizing the village."_

_ "Can you pay the same steep prices other people have?"_

_ "The needs of the people must come first." Her father rose and held out his hand to her. There's still the horse, she thought, saddle and bridle all set. All set to send another rider to unavoidable doom. "Whatever the cost, we must be willing to pay it."_

_ "Are you sure?" She searched every nook of her brain for an alternative and found nothing. Her father's pat on her arm failed to soothe her._

_ "Desperate times call for desperate measures."_


	2. Chipped

Dust has glazed that gold gown, he notices, rambling on and on, watching her nod. It's all going so smoothly and he can just imagine her mind formulating a routine around his orders.

"Oh! And you will skin the children I hunt for their pelts."

There. Live entertainment. Face pales, body tenses...cups crash to the floor? He would have to remind her maids are meant to make places cleaner. "That one was a quip. Not serious." Chuckling at her confusion, her horror subsides into a relief. She stoops down to pick up her mess...now she's catching on...but in no time distress is upon her again.

"Oh my, I'm so sorry, but, er, it's chipped." She holds it up to him with trembling hands, her lips rolling in and out of her mouth deciding what to say, if anything. "You, y-you can hardly see it." She tilts the cup towards him to show him the enormous gash he was hardly supposed to see just dying to draw blood from any innocent or not-so-innocent tea-drinker. Of all the girls in all the known kingdoms, if this one turned out to be clumsy then, well, at least the crashes and bangs and possible cracking of bones would at least provide some background noise.

"Well, it's just a cup," he says with a shake of his head. Sighing, she sets it back on the tray with the others.


	3. Cracked

Days pass quicker than she expects, and the chores exhaust her to the point where she can still find sleep amongst the dungeon's uneven stone floor. With the exception of eyelids that feel as though they're made of bricks, she looks no different. But today, reaching up with the longer broom to catch the cobwebs where the ceilings meet the walls, she feels more like a rag doll.

She reaches for another cobweb, this time with a grunt that echoes down the corridor. Dust scatters, but it still remains, taunting her like a bully holding one of her books just above her fingertips.

"You called?"

"N-no, I, I was trying to..." She gestures at the cobweb.

"There are ladders."

"Yes, and that would have been a good idea, but..." she trailed off again, biting her lip. Yes, tell him how much it hurt your back to even try carrying the thing, she scolds herself. See what it brings you.

"Why are you hunched over like an old hag?" he asks, twirling his finger at her.

"I didn't notice."

"Then that's what I'll say if anyone asks about your hump." It's dismissive, but he lingers, perhaps making sure she continues with her work. Not to be outdone, she reaches for the cobweb again, wincing when she raises her arms.

"Your back is killing you."

"It's nothing."

"Tsk, tsk, if you haven't got your health, you haven't got anything. Turn around." He crosses over to her and takes a quick glimpse at the back of her gown, cringing at the sound of her back cracking as she straightens herself. "That gown is hardly appropriate for housework. You know, I seem to have forgotten princesses don't sleep on cold floors, do they?"

"No," she mouths, hoping this isn't a trap.

"No. Let's increase our productivity, shall we?"

Instantly, she finds herself at the threshold of an upstairs room, the foot of a bed and a stained glass window in view, a long design of budding flowers. The fireplace crackles, lighting up the room, inviting her to step into it. A cream canopy hangs over the bed and a pink-trimmed wardrobe stands next to it.

"I, I can stay here?" she asks, regretting the choice to speak.

"Not now. You have work to do. Chop chop, dearie! I won't have my tea late!" He disappears down the stairs, apparently trusting her to not take the whole day admiring her new surroundings. Still agape, her fingers brush the edge of the bed, trace over the sconces, and curl around the handles of the wardrobe. Something more suitable for cleaning, she thinks, sliding back a few simple afternoon dresses in favor of a white blouse and blue bodice with matching skirt.

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**A/N: The title of the story is from a line in Lord Byron's _There Be None of Beauty's Daughters_, a lovely poem. Seemed a Byronic story to me. Chapters will get longer as the story progresses and updates will now be on a weekly basis...approximately. Let me know what you think!**


	4. Chickens

Chickens. Blasted girl gets out of the dungeon and has the gall to ask to raise chickens. Seated in his chair, his mouth twitches in the bewildered way when one is not sure whether to laugh or simply ask for clarification. Breaking his cups and turning his estate into a farm—seemed the opposite of what a housekeeper should be doing. She still stands there, face full of hope...better respond.

"Unless you like having whatever dry bread I can find around here for breakfast," she says.

"I'm partial to the stale rye."

"I just thought you might like eggs once in a while." She's not sure where to look. Either that or something on the carpet is fascinating.

"No" would be the most appropriate, concise answer. But that triggers a memory, one he doesn't often pull out and revisit on his own. Bae, about three, always running around like he was in a foot race against invisible enemies. He liked to run in front of a rope-and-leather swing the children had made and took turns on, and always Rumpelstiltskin found himself warning, "No, son. You'll get kicked in the head." But three-year-olds don't always listen and Rumpelstiltskin wondered if letting the boy find out the hard way would keep him from running in front of the swing ever again. Sure enough, the other boy in the swing didn't stop in time and his fast little runner fell right to the ground with a thud. This time, Bae ran right to his father, holding his head but not crying, and said he'd be more careful. He never ran in front of the swing again.

"Would it be all right?" she asks again.

"Oh, why not?" He shoots her a grin. "I think I can manage to procure some. Always watch your step going into the coop, though. Chickens can be messy." It was that easy. In chess, one often does lose a pawn in order to capture the opponent's knight or bishop or something of more value. It would be a matter of days before she would come back to him, humiliated, and ask him to remove the entire thing from her sight, pride gone. He would, and what fun it would be deciding what that trouble would be worth...


	5. And Arthur

She throws on her cloak and picks up the basket near the door on her way out to the coop before starting with the mopping. No more than half a dozen chickens to start, he'd said, and she finds that number more than manageable. She'd named them, not that anyone would care that Aurora was the speckled one and Jasmine was the white one—as long as they produced their eggs, none would care. She feels heavy snowflakes fall on her cloak and sets the basket down to pull the hood over her head.

Bustling back into the house, she looks back out at the coop. Sighing, she steps around the mop and bucket and goes back out, avoiding little puddles of mud here and there, and pushes the coop towards the door.

"Rest easy, girls," she says. "And Arthur. No one will freeze to death. You'll see."

She scrambles inside, turns, and takes hold of the other side of the coop and pulls. It's harder now, squeezing it through the door. The clucking sounds more irritated than usual. Goodness, that's not clucking, she realizes. That's squawking!

"Quiet! I'll get you in and we'll discuss the details later." Heaving, she bends down once again and tries to hoist more of it in.

"Belle..."

"Oh! It, it started snowing and I couldn't let them stay out there and freeze, so I was..."

With a wave of his hand, the doorway widens and the coop comes all the way inside. As if on cue, the chickens totter out, heads bobbing, scouting their new terrain. Her mouth rounds as her mind tries in vain to say something.

"Is there something you'd like to say?" he asks.

"Thank you."

"Something else, perhaps? Some sort of regret that's been lingering? That maybe you were in over your head?"

"Oh, no, I've got this." She nods for emphasis. "They just need to stay warm. We might get more eggs this way. Minnie!" she hisses. The reddish brown one was pecking right around his boots.

"You named them?"

Belle kneels, holds out her arms, and Minnie comes back to her as casually as a chicken possibly could.

"I was just about to take the eggs to the kitchen before I started mopping." Attempting to stand with a chicken in one's arms takes the grace taught in countless lessons since childhood. With a nervous laugh, she all but stuffs Minnie back into the coop. "Right. Off I go then?"

He's rendered speechless, and yet Belle does not consider it a victory.


	6. He Spies

**A/N: Special treat, two chapters in one update. As you may have noticed, the pattern of the story apart from the prologue is two chapters somehow connected by theme, switching points of view. Hope everyone is enjoying so far.**

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He walks through the halls, eager to transfigure everyone seeking him out into...he wasn't sure what. Something tiny and undignified. Ladybugs, maybe. One right after the other, each one desperate and self-involved and oh-so-willing to pay such steep prices. The house keeps silent for him, dark, too, and he can stroll with his hands behind his back and close his eyes for just a moment, taking a break from what feels like constant wheeling and dealing.

A sound from behind one of the many closed doors breaks his meditation, the scraping of something heavy against the wooden floor. Without a sound, he springs to the door and opens it an inch.

Just Belle on one of the high-backed, cushioned chairs, must have moved it when she sat down. Reading. Reading what, he can't tell, but she appears quite absorbed in it, her eyes focused. The rich sound of her turning the page seems to fill the room. So relaxed, so still for once, but then her eyes widen and she slams the book shut with a blush. She sits there stunned for a second before she marches over to the shelf and places the book back, leaves her hand on it, and pulls it out one more time. She's finishing the page, he realizes, about to laugh. Naughty girl, what could have shocked you that much? He didn't recall any smutty books in his meager library, but then his definition and hers might differ greatly. Smirking, he continues on his walk, knowing she'll be coming out and resuming her duties.

"Ah! There you are!" She stops dead in her tracks before turning to face him. "What have you been up to?"

"Dusting." She's a horrible liar. Just horrible. All that blinking and stammering.

"Dusting? That is known for its explicit imagery."

Opening her mouth, she pauses, blushing still, and then matches his smirk. "Only recently, since it had been so good at implicit imagery for years."

He laughs.


	7. She Spies

She watches the snow falling against her window from her bed, lying on her stomach, mesmerized by the powdery flakes against the pane of stained glass, muted now since it is night, but still beautiful. Tomorrow she can go out and take in the sight of the snow on the hilltops and in the fir branches. Normally a perfect night to fall asleep, but sleep won't come. She wraps a shawl around her shoulders and slides into her slippers.

It's the perfect house to pretend to haunt, she thinks, creeping down the corridor. About seven other books await her in the library, histories, mostly, she'd seen, histories of foreign lands that sounded so exciting. It hadn't been her fault she'd picked up something that turned out to be..something not meant for a lady's eyes, that was for sure. The illustrations hadn't been that good, or proportional, she thinks, but they conveyed the meaning all too clearly.

Prancing down the main staircase, she turns towards the dining room where the gargantuan arched windows are. A pity they're covered by the curtains. How lovely it would be to watch the snow and the moonlight through them.

Glass shattering followed by a curse of frustration breaks her reverie. Tiptoeing to the back of the house, she holds her breath. She's not allowed to clean back here, the workshop/office area where those brave enough to seek him out and strong enough to scale the mountains end up. There's no door, no need. The threshold is protected by magic, allowing only him entrance.

And yet she gazes in, like an idiot, she thinks. Goodbye, world.

He looms over a vat, his weight on his hands, staring down into it with a violence that could boil the contents. Smoke shoots out every few seconds with a whistling sound, and Belle credits herself for not gasping in surprise. He spins and throws a bottle into the vat. More smoke answers him, a steamier, bluish vapor. Looking ready to ram his head into the wall, he steps away from the vat, hands on his hips, and heaves. Suddenly, he dashes back to it and curses at it, striking the brim with his hand until tears run down his face.

Belle sneaks back through the dining room and up the stairs, not making a sound until she has closed her door behind her. She crawls into bed and throws the covers over herself, resigned to watch the snow huddled up and alone.


	8. Progeny

Each tiny sparkle needed to be counted. Too many, catastrophe; too few, disaster. He rakes the gold fairy dust with a small razorblade the way addicts have raked fine powders for indulgence.

"Where did you get this?"

Potion making is a precise, meticulous art, but not everyone seems to understand that. He looks up from the table to where she is holding up a small etching.

"Call it a gift."

She does not press for more information. Rather, she blows the thin layer of dust on top of the frame away and places it back in the cupboard. She has picked up every item with care to dust beneath each one. He resumes his counting.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you. I didn't see you were counting."

He can feel his temper rising, but she resumes her work, picking up a bust and working the rag into every groove, removing every speck. Now he can return to his ingredient that must be just so...

Her shriek makes him drop the razorblade. Four hundred and forty-seven or four hundred and forty-eight? Damn her. His chair tips as he stands, marching over to the cupboard expecting to find a small roach or something now legally deaf. Instead, she's bending down and picking up a rag doll with yellow yarn for hair and two enormous black buttons for eyes. Her elbow is locked and she has one eye closed—keeping it as far from her as possible to place it back in the cupboard.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt you again, but I just got a glimpse of those eyes in the back of the cupboard there, and..." She closes and locks the cupboard and folds her rag and smooths the skirt of her dress. "Unnerving little thing."

"It's a doll."

"Yes, I know, silly to scream, but it just, it just looked so, like it was meant to be a human, but..."

"You're neglecting the glass." He taps the glass on the doors.

"But they look spotless."

"'Look' versus 'is,' dearie," he sings, walking backwards so he can see the frustration on her face. She shudders while staring down the doll.

"Think of it this way," he says, feeling like being cruel. "What else would you be doing? If you were home, you would be ordering your servants to do something like this while you and your dashing knight would be upstairs making beautiful little children." With a laugh, he starts over again with the fairy dust. One, two...

"Beautiful idiot little children," he hears her mutter under her breath. He doesn't know if she means her fiance or herself.


	9. Offspring

"Hello. May I help you?" she asks a woman at the door, a middle-aged, frizzy-haired woman trembling. Her clothes are old, but not ragged or dirty, one of the genteel poor, she assumes.

"I...I have it." She holds out a tiny heart-shaped box to her.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what..."

"Tell him I brought it!" the woman blurts, far harsher than she intended. Belle nods and decides she will look for him, but he is scampering down the stairs.

"Fetch that pot up there," he calls to her. Without questioning, she unlocks the cupboard and reaches up to the second shelf for a squat flower pot, plain and certainly not looking like it possesses any magical qualities. Handing it to him, he ushers the woman to come inside and holds his hand out, palm up, waiting for the box.

"Wasn't so hard was it?" he asks without looking at her. He fills the pot with a bag of dirt and makes a small hole for dropping in a seed.

"No, actually." She swallows. "Our bargain?"

"Patience, dearie," he says, pouring a cup of water over the pot. "Outside. Should be any minute now."

"What is that?" the woman asks. Belle hurries outside, too intrigued to speak.

"Your end of the bargain." He places the pot on the ground and sits cross-legged on the ledge framing the front step.

"What?"

"Your little sprout."

"You, you..." The woman still shakes, but with rage. "You promised me a child!"

"And I can't very well make one the old-fashioned way right now, so if you'll just wait a second more." He gestures at the pot. There is already a flimsy stem, twisting and thickening until buds form. The top bud, a bright red tulip, begins to open. "A walnut shell," he says, tossing the woman one. "May come in handy."

Belle keeps her eyes on the flower, the fastest-growing plant she's ever seen. The plump, moist petals begin to part and inside, there is a yawn. The woman kneels down to see a small girl with a long braid and dress, smiling at her.

"Are you my mother?" her tiny voice asks.

"Why, she's...she's no bigger than my thumb," the woman breathes, holding out her hand. The tiny girl steps out from the flower onto the woman's hand and waves to her.

"Hello."

"Thank you," she says to him, tears in her eyes. "Thank you so very, very much." As best she can, she cradles the girl and starts for the way down the mountain, their two voices murmuring to each other until the wind drowns them out.

With no flare or air of satisfaction, he leaps off the ledge, picks up the pot, and uproots the flower, flinging it into the field. She follows him inside.

"How did you do that?" she asks, her heart racing after what she had witnessed. "That was amazing!"

"Magic."

"She's so small. I can't imagine the trouble they'll have."

"All children bring a little bit of woe with them," he says with a flat tone she hasn't heard before. "Not all that amazing, really." He shakes the small box at her. "She performed a small task for me."

"Hence a small child?" Belle tries.

He grins at her. "Now you're catching on."


	10. The Shoemaker

"It's really coming down now," she says while pouring the tea, staring at the blizzard outside. "Maybe you won't have so many, er, clients."

"Oh, you're wrong there, dearie. Winter's the busiest time of all." He takes the chipped cup from her and sips. "Something about the cold makes everyone more desperate. 'Help, we have no food' and 'Help, Granny's freezing to death.'" A bolt of curiosity jolts him. "What season were you busiest?"

"Before? Oh, spring, I'd say." She hesitates when he extends his arm, motioning for her to take a seat. "That's always when we'd tour the kingdom the most, throw the most balls, lessons included outdoor things again. I'd be doing lessons now, I suppose," she sighs. "You know, my governesses could never find me sometimes."

"No?"

"I'd hide up on the roof sometimes with nothing but a book and an apple," she says, the closest thing to an evil grin that can materialize on her face coming into view.

"So I'll know where to find you should you disappear."

"You needn't worry about that," she says with far more serious a tone. "I understand adult obligations. It's just, when you're a child..."

"You feel trapped," he interrupts, not sure why there is a bite to his tone. "A grand estate with ample room to explore."

"Do you want me to be quiet or do you want me to be honest?" she says with a firmer tone, setting her cup down hard. Never one to shy away from the more interesting choice, he sits up and rests his chin in his hands, knowing she'll pick up on the rapt but sarcastic attention. "I keep myself busy, but there is little to stimulate my mind here. A house like this ought to have a library where the walls are covered in books. I'm not normally one to complain, but you did bring it up." She picks up her teacup and holds it in front of her lips, shielding them.

"Ah. Stimulation. How fired up are you for some variety in your routine?"

"Why?"

"Let's say I have a deal in mind." Her flushed face should mean refusal before she even hears the terms, but he's bargained and negotiated for so long he knows intrigued eyes when he sees them.

"I think there are a great many people who would say I'd have to be mad to make a deal with you," she chuckles and angles her chair so she faces the windows rather than the table.

"Or adventurous. But, no matter," he sings. "I did notice the laundry piling up..."

"What would you offer?"

It's all he can do not to squeal.

"Now we're talking! I have a method to entertain one such as you. Good-deed-doers and all. I've noticed a couple in the village, shoemakers, and they are just about to. Be. Washed. Up."

"That's horrible," she says. "What was your price?"

"I haven't made a deal with them. They won't come to me and I don't seek anyone out. Not sure why they won't. Call it fear..."

"Virtue..."

"Anyway," he growls, "I'm toying with the idea of being...nice. So if they won't come to me, maybe you will on their behalf."

"In exchange for what?" He'd been told over and over, in rather snippy tones, that only simpletons would make deals with him, but he'd found the intelligent just as willing. No one is immune from want, or the kind of fascination that makes people stop in the streets when a carriage has run over someone.

"A garden."

"A garden?"

"Once the weather clears, there is a patch of field out front that could do with some color, don't you think? You see I want to give the occasional traveler a sense of hope and flowers seem to inspire such."

"You mean you want to lift their spirits before you snatch that hope right out from under them."

"What an unromantic way of putting it! I thought I'd pegged you as an idealistic sort. Very well." He stands and sets his cup on the tray himself. "Since you don't want a project that could stimulate that precious mind of yours..."

"Wait." She rolls her eyes as she says it. Goodness, was she ever becoming more fun to watch. "You're going to help complete strangers and give me something more challenging to do?" Pause. Don't overplay your hand, he tells himself. "One condition."

"Let's hear it." This should be rich.

"I get to come with you."

* * *

It takes no extra magic to take her with him to the tiny shop in the village. It smells of leather and ash and wood shavings. She glides around the perimeter while he immediately goes to the soles laid out for the next day. Smirking at them, he picks up the scissors.

"What can I do?" she asks.

"I thought you wanted to watch."

"I thought I did, too, but you, you inspired me just a little," she whispers. "How can I help them?"

What the hell helping them had to do with the bigger picture, he neither knows nor cares, but the curse, the curse that will be his masterpiece, requires a dash of altruism, and this is as close as he can come to that.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something." Busybody. Busybody Belle. It sounds like a folksong. "Just remember they're sleeping."

His back is to her, but he can hear her sweeping the floor, the swishing of the broom providing a rhythm for him to work. Sewing by hand—not in years and yet the bones and muscles in his fingers remember. An artisan, a craftsman—hmm, it had once been his identity. Now, working with his hands, with the exception of spinning at his wheel, is a mere novelty.

Belle's humming yanks him back into the present, and he finds it pleasant, but all too soon it and the swishing stop. Turning around in his chair, he catches sight of her on all fours, rump high in the air.

"Lose something?"

"They have a mousetrap under here," she whispers a little louder than before. Careful to not bump her head on the many tools hanging up, she walks over to him. "How many more miles of garden would you add to my work if I asked you to get them a cat? Please?"

"You're a mercenary when you're trying to help!" he scoffs, placing his hand on his heart for emphasis. "You'd suck the magic dry as this village would grow rich overnight!" She snorts and nods, not the reaction he expects, and resumes her sweeping. Raising an eyebrow at her, she responds only with humming the same little ditty as before, her movements a little less structured now, as if dancing. Returning to his work, he wonders if a cat just for the hell of it would add to the altruistic value of it all.

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**A/N: This chapter and the next one are concurrent.**


	11. And the Elves

"Stop. Stop a minute." She stops sweeping and recoils a fraction when he approaches her. She hadn't been too loud. What could the matter be? "Do you want to stay and see their reaction?"

"Really?" she asks. His smile is so wicked and contagious she finds herself standing the broom up against the wall. "How?"

"How? Any way you like! Shrunken down to the size of an ant. Hovering in the air with the roof made see-through! Racing around the room so fast they can't see you!" Laughing at the bravado, she covers her mouth when she hears stirring above them.

"How about them just not seeing us, please?" she asks, wringing her hands as she remembers she isn't exactly fond of magic.

"Done." Done? Already? She holds her hands out in front of her and sees them plain as day. "You're invisible to them, dearie. Not us."

A roly-poly man bustles down the stairs and into the workshop, a woman close behind him and it's all the proof Belle needs to be sure they cannot see her. They walk right past them and up to the dozens of pairs of shoes on the workbench.

"Look! Look at this!" The couple join hands and waddle around in joy, and she cannot help but giggle. Bearing witness to the happiness of others, she thinks, exhaling. She clasps her hands together and listens to them, spellbound.

"Who could have done this? There's nothing, no note, nothing," the little elderly woman says.

"They even replaced the leather!" the man shouts, close to her ear, but no matter. He waddles back to his wife and kisses her. "It must have been elves!"

"That is probably our cue to leave," Rumpelstiltskin whispers to her.

"Right," she says. "Oh! Wait! If I hold something, can you make it invisible, too?"

"Whatever are you going to do now?" She pulls a lump of green up from the floor with a string attached to it and some red ribbon.

"Mistletoe," she says. "For hanging on their door. It might bring in more customers." Still high off the couples' joy she positions it on a nail without a sound. He passes under it with an impatient eyebrow. "Now I'm ready. How did you make so many? Did you freeze time or something like that?"

"No. I'm fast, dearie. When I want to be." That haughty, wicked smile has never been so close before, and Belle can't help but return it.


	12. Beastly

"Drowning out the clock ticking?"

"No."

"Because I think you were huffing those sighs at one per second." Honestly. Trying to read in the parlor with her around should have been tranquil. It had seemed that way at first, of course, Belle at the other side curled up with a book on her lap, but once again appearances prove deceiving.

"It's just, that man that just left, asking for a love potion..."

"Lust potion, dearie," he corrects her. "No potion can create love."

"Even so," she says, turning the book over so her wrist rests on the spine. Oh, how fun, a discussion. "You didn't find it absolutely revolting he would use such a thing on his own wife?"

"Better a wife than a cow."

"It's cheating!" Her face is growing crimson, but she's pushing aside her modesty. "I know it's none of my business, but if they have indeed gone through with this silly 'holding off until one of them cracks,' he should just go on and give in and be done with it."

"Admit his lust is too great for him? Beg for it? Can't do that, I'm afraid. She'll own him forever."

"Own?" For once she seems well-versed in this subject, her question more incredulity than confusion.

"Yes, own. Carnal knowledge, dearie, is how women control men." A snort responds. "I detect disbelief."

"You think that's how it is? Only a man would think women control men. Men have repressed women for ages for the silliest reasons and if she feels this is the only way she can have a say, then perhaps she's in the right."

"Strikes a nerve with you, does it?"

"It's just that it's cheating, like I said. I'm sure she wants to as much as he does, so all he needs to do is admit it."

Now it is his turn to snort. That she had a feistiness to her he knew, but the free way she speaks now contrasts so much with the girl who slammed a book shut last month just because it had one too many adult words in it. He realizes only some egalitarian fervor can be behind such outspokenness. A bit titillating in its own way.

"I'm sure." Oh, he knows his sarcasm and returning to his book won't be the end of it. One, two...

"You think it's been an easy fortnight for her?" Ha ha, her fury as well as her sighs run like clockwork.

"So you believe that if he gives in first, she'll just welcome him with open...arms," he decides on, not wanting to push the boundaries of modesty with her. "And that will be the end of it."

"Of course. She'll just be happy to know she's valued as highly as she is. Women want to as much as men. They just hide it because men like to think they don't want it."

"That makes so much sense," he says, rolling his eyes.

"It does. Men do all sorts of ridiculous things to convince themselves women are prim, unfeeling little saints so they can always tell themselves it's just a woman's nature that she doesn't want to, rather than thinking it's anything they did, a tortuous way of placing the blame on anything but themselves, you know."

"And, assuming this conspiracy theory of yours is correct, if men ever discovered the secret...everyone gets to indulge in what they want, marriages everywhere are saved, and there would be no more holding out!" He clasps his hands together and squeals. "It's so glorious! But I suppose that's bad."

"Men don't want to believe women can love them."

"I have a response." He holds up a finger. "Wait for it. It's one word. It's on the tip of my tongue...balderdash."

"Then why can't we pick our own husbands?"

She has him there, he realizes. The debate must shift or else she'll realize she's won...he replays every word in his mind and gathers his thoughts.

"So cynical, dearie. I wonder who has spurned your 'love,' as you put it, in all your experience." For a moment, he considers the fact that she may never have a husband now, but pushes the thought out.

"I, I don't have to have firsthand experience," she stutters.

"Then I'm right that you've never wanted it."

"That's an entirely different—"

"And if she wants it as badly as you assume she does, adding just a little bit more lust to her fire can't hurt, can it? Might even be doing her a favor."

"It's still not fair."

"You've implied yourself that marriage isn't fair, so you see, this whole time we were actually agreeing." His hands flail, he giggles—the final point is his. She rises and folds down the page she was on. Hesitating while looking over at the stairs, she crooks the book between her arm and chest and narrows her eyes at him. He mocks the expression while something in him feels stirred in a way, still waters finally churning.

"I'm going to retire for the night. Beastly conversation anyway." She heads up the stairs, tucking her chin in, cheeks redder than before. It would be nice if a gorgeous woman such as she wanted it, he thinks.

* * *

**A/N: Just thought I'd remind everyone I don't own the show or the characters. Thank you to everyone who has left a review. Please, if you enjoy the story, or even if you don't, let me know! **


	13. Beauty

She can't believe she's doing this. She keeps looking over her shoulder at her bedroom door, making sure he won't see her "shirking." The young girl who trekked up to the house just wanted to be beautiful. That hardly warranted making a deal, so Belle had brought her in and had led her straight into her chambers to the front of her vanity. Although it had been ages since she'd done anything more than curl her hair, she remembered how to apply just the right amount of makeup and was now brushing the girl's long wheaten hair.

"Are you sure this is all I need?"

"It's all about how you carry yourself, the confidence you have," she says. Placing a hand on the girl's shoulder she adds, "And inner beauty goes a long way."

"No one seems to notice the inner beauty if the outer beauty isn't there," the girl pouts, wincing as Belle works out the last tangle at the tip of her hair.

"Oh, I doubt that. Just keeping your hair out of your face will do wonders for you. Here." She moves over to the wardrobe and pulls out a simple collared dress, a soft robin's egg blue. "You can take this with you."

"It's lovely," the girl coos, brushing the skirt with her fingertips. "And it's so simple!"

"Well, I think that's because whoever made this dress remembered fashion isn't about people noticing your clothes."

"It's not?"

"No. It's about the clothes making people notice you. Your skin is so fair and your eyes are so blue that I think that color will really bring them out." She doesn't do this. She doesn't sit around gazing into a mirror analyzing herself and others, but it is an emergency, after all. And it's not like this is a shallow girl, she thinks. She's just lonely and needs a little confidence.

"Thank you. I, I don't know how I can pay you..."

"No need." The smile she receives makes Belle wonder how this girl could have possibly gotten it into her head that she isn't pretty.

"Thank you!" she breathes, hugging the dress to herself. They head back downstairs towards the door, the slightest application of eye shadow and gloss eliciting a straight back, a strong smile, and a warm demeanor nowhere in sight when the girl had knocked at the door. "Thank you again."

"It's no trouble. Be careful going back." She opens the door for the girl.

"I would never have expected Rumpelstiltskin's wife to be so generous."

"What?" she asks, several seconds after the girl had closed the door and started for home.


	14. Mouth

He had fought to even get out of bed this morning, as he always does this day of the year more than any other. Too many memories flood his mind, reminding him his heart is as tender, weak, as ever. Every birthday flashes at him in lightning succession, ending with the very first one, holding Bae in his arms for the first time, unable to look away from the unfocused but determined eyes taking everything in. He'd vowed to give the boy his best chance.

He makes no deals, does not leave the grounds, spends the day in silent contemplation. One would think he would be working even harder on the curse today, but he can't. He can't due to the fact that on this day, this day of the year more than any other, he wonders if he is searching for someone who doesn't want to be found.

It will drive him mad, more so, he sighs, longing for any distraction within arm's length. Nothing. So he prowls the corridors, his mind feeling the way a bone might when one removes the splint.

She's dusting the tops of the picture frames, so he stops dead in his tracks. Just ask. Better yet, just order. It's well within your right to do so. And yet, ordering it sounds more absurd than requesting.

Sensing someone near, she looks over at him.

"Would you, do you know how to play chess?"

* * *

She's smarter than most would assume, he thinks, in spite of the fact he has won the two previous games. The first one lasted only about twenty minutes, but the second one, two hours. She rests her cheek on her knuckles and stares at the board, into it, really, as if the pieces will give her a coded hint. There is a crease in the middle of her forehead when she is deep in thought, and her lips nearly pout. Her rook dances from side to side as she toys with taking her fingers off of it, making the move official. He's not impatient. Gods, he's nothing if he's not willing to wait for something he wants. It bothers him not at all the time she takes. The corners of her mouth turn up first. He just knew she would be fun to watch. It's too wholesome to be a smirk, just something unique to her. With great confidence, she leaves her rook in its new position. Her lips tighten and seal into a more neutral expression, banishing the emotion from her face.

"If you think you can intimidate me by staring at me, I don't think it's going to work," she says.

Blinking, he glances back down at the board. Distraction indeed.

"You don't find playing with me boring, do you?"

Why should she care, he considers, but decides on cordiality.

"No."

"You could just tell me what's wrong. No one would know but me."

"What makes you think something's wrong?" She shrugs. No more beating around the bush, he decides. He takes his knight and captures her rook.

She gives him that look again, this time right at him, and he suddenly feels like all hell is breaking loose inside. For a moment, he can no longer predict her, can no longer hear her voice before it utters a word, and yet he wants to know what she'll do next. His answer comes all too quickly, however, as she glides her bishop down the board and takes his knight in her small hand.

"If nothing was wrong, you would have seen that coming," she says. This time her mouth scrunches just a tad, a shyer, sweeter version of that look before. Her mouth moves to speak, reminding him of several stories in which the hero ends the lady's jabbering with a kiss. Tempting.

"It's your move. Unless you forfeit," she adds with a laugh.

Very tempting.


	15. Kiss

_Fun with Gaston came not often, but when it did, it trumpeted its arrival and did not let up until it chose to, which she did like to a degree. He took her horseback riding, out to track animals with him—adventures, and, while her heart never really melted, she hoped all the while his was and that behind the arrogance, the patronizing tone he used when he refused to teach her something about his world, he was falling in love with her. Because she was sure she wouldn't be able to hate a man who loved her. A superficial heart couldn't love._

_ "Won't your father be angry you're all wet?" he asks once they reach the courtyard's overhang. He hands her his cape and marches to the window, watching his reflection finger-comb his hair._

_ "Not at all. It was good to let the horses run around a bit before the rain." She wrings her hair and pats the cape against her face, her riding clothes feeling ten times heavier than before. Biting her lip, she considers teasing him about his preening. "You know, the statues on the grounds still cut a stately figure even when it rains." _

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "I mean, your handsomeness isn't going to wash away." She tries a laugh to show his bewildered face she is being lighthearted. Instead of sharing it, he approaches her, although not with an irritated expression._

_ "Gods, Belle, you're so beautiful." Her back tenses at the sensation of his hand climbing up it, pulling her to him. Their foreheads touch, and it should be one of those secret moments to treasure, she thinks. But she pries his hand off her thigh instead. _

_ "Kiss me," he gasps out to her. She complies with tight lips, eyes open, taking him in for only a few seconds before wrenching herself free. He clutches her arm and brings her back to him, his kiss more forceful now, smashing her lips. Angling her neck and lowering her head until it's too awkward for him to continue, she folds the cape under her arm and heads inside without a word._

* * *

A damp cloth now presses against her lips, Rumpelstiltskin's face blank as he dabs her cut. It banishes the memory she was visiting.

"Are you sure you still want the chickens inside?"

She nods, the cloth and the pain preventing her from speaking. Rolling his eyes, he puts the cloth in the bowl of water and takes what looks like a salt shaker in his hand. Gray powder falls into the water.

"Just something to make it heal a little faster," he says before she can ask. She would have preferred the tried-and-true method rather than magic, but her lip throbs harder, so it seems to want to argue that point with her. She tries not to regard his face the same way she tries not to regard any other. One should be weighed and measured by character, not a face, not the shell. No recipe she's ever come across requires the eggshell. Listen to yourself, eggs on the brain. No wonder the girls were a little defensive this morning. She exhales.

"What?" He pulls the cloth away for her to speak.

"Nothing. Is it almost finished?" Since he motions he's about to press it against her again, she closes her eyes and groans. "One might say something comforting at a time like this," she muffles. Her lips push back on the cloth, puckered a fraction.

"You really need me to kiss it and make it feel all better?" he scoffs. "You're finished anyway."

She paws her lip and stares at him for a moment. That hadn't sounded all that bad, really.

"Thank you."


	16. Conflict

Spinning always comforted him, and rarely did he allow any despairing soul to enter his house beyond his workspace, but one must make an exception for Maleficent. Regal looking as always, she watches him spin, he ignores her, and Belle polishes the candlesticks with more stealth than she ever has before.

"Did you hear what I said?" Maleficent hisses at him. "I want a sleeping curse!"

"You'll have to speak up, dearie. My housekeeper, all the way over there, couldn't hear you." He curves his hand around his mouth. "She wants a sleeping curse!"

"Don't do your little imp tricks with me," she threatens. "Not with me, the Mistress of all Evil."

"Who didn't get invited to a birthday party. A child's birthday party at that," he whines to her, pouting. "It's as if you didn't have anything better to do."

"If you're not going to help me..."

"Oh, I can help you, dearie. I have exactly what you need." He gnashes his teeth at her. "But I'm not a something-for-nothing. All magic comes with a price."

"My magic can pay anything as long as that simpering little family gets what it deserves. Now hurry along. I've waited sixteen years for this. I vowed this!"

"Ha ha! How wrong you have it, Evil Mistress! What I want from you has nothing to do with what you can do, but rather what you can't do."

"Can't do? You insult me."

"Then I suppose all the rumors of you not being able to have a child of your own are just idle gossip?" Tears prickle Maleficent's face. With more bitterness than he remembers having, he wonders if all women grow as envious so easily.

"Are you going to give me that curse or not?" she chokes, her eyes hard, her hand gripping her staff tighter.

"This curse?" He manifests it into his hand. "If you'll owe me a favor."

"A favor? What game are you playing, Rumpelstiltskin? You just said all magic comes with a price."

"And it does, it does! You take this and curse that beautiful maiden to your heart's content, and I'll be at your castle, by and by, with a little something for you to protect...since you don't have anything of your own."

"That's it?"

"Easy-sounding, isn't it?" To see her face when the time came to get it back. He'd almost make a deal with himself for that. Dabbing the spindle of the spinning wheel with her finger, she sneers before leaving.

"What is she going to do?" Belle asks, rushing over to him once Maleficent is gone. Soon. He'd have everything he needed soon enough and now a place to keep it.

"Probably use a sleeping curse to put the little princess to sleep." That should have been self-explanatory, he thinks, recalling a few curses do have strange names, but most are precisely what's on the label or parchment.

"And you're fine with that." It's not a question, which brings his head up to stare at the coldest expression he's ever seen on her.

"It's a deal. I don't keep track of the magic once it changes hands unless it's in my interest to do so."

"You make all these deals and it doesn't matter to you who with and they can just go do whatever they want with all this?" She's near screaming and he debates whether to shout or placate her.

"Just what exactly did you think I do?" he asks.

Belle storms out.

* * *

"Belle?" He climbs the stairs to the hall where her room is. "Belle? Where are you, dearie?" Not a trace of her since this morning, and it wouldn't matter to him except that it is time for tea and no one is in the kitchen taking the teapot off the stove because no one put it on in the first place. No one is pulling the teacups out of the cupboard, either.

He knocks on her door, the gentlemanly approach first.

"Sick?"

"No," comes the muffled answer from behind the door.

"Best be coming out then."

"It's not time yet."

"Oh? We're on your schedule now? Which must not include having tea?"

"I don't have to make you any tea at all."

His mouth hangs open, aghast and sadistically tasting just how sweet her eventual apology and forgiveness-begging will be.

"May I remind you of our deal?"

"You told me the first day I was here what my duties were and you said I will serve you meals. Tea is not a meal."

"You can't argue the fine points of a contract with me!" he growls through his teeth, feeling his blood boiling. "You were brought here to serve, and in what capacity is up to me."

"Then you wouldn't have needed to clarify afterwards with a list of chores!" she yells.

"You can't stay in there forever!" he bellows.

"Yes, I can!"

"Fine!" Rumpelstiltskin barges back down the hallway and down the stairs, swearing at himself for not just killing the help, if he could call her that.

* * *

**A/N: Yes, borrowing just a little from the Disney movie here. I can't believe what I have to look up sometimes, but gas stoves were invented as early as the 1820s, although they weren't mainstream until about the 1880s. In 1859, they issued a patent to a guy who invented the electro-heater. So why am I putting a stove in a setting that seems to be based on a period of time much earlier? Because the Disney version had a stove and I'm assuming that's how Mrs. Potts' tea was warmed up. There is no other reason. If there is any confusion, I had Maleficent curse Sleeping Beauty sixteen years ago, and, because she must have a lot of other heinous things to do, is just now coming to get the actual curse since it's time to enact it. No, Rumpelstiltskin obviously does not have the bottled True Love now, but he knows he will and he knows the perfect, and somewhat ironic, place to hide it until the opportune moment.**


	17. Resolution?

**A/N: Thanks to everyone so far who has reviewed! It makes my day. Also, special thanks to Daes Gatling. I don't know if you are on here, but your _Once Upon a Time: Abridged _series has not only kept me laughing as you MERCILESSLY riff on every episode, but it's really helped me refresh my memory when I need to, and the youtube series where you have put all the fairytale world scenes in chronological order is an AMAZING reference tool. You rock! I'm thinking I might eat an apple turnover and have a mini-OUAT party in the near future...**

* * *

Two more hours and she would leave her room and serve dinner, she thinks between pages of a history of the sea people. Or two more hours until a long, arduous death, but she prefers to believe she will be serving dinner.

"The sea people? Fickle lot."

She shrieks, leaping off of her bed at the sight of him sitting on it. He shifts his weight, playing with the springs, choosing to be oblivious.

"What, what are you doing in here? This, a man shouldn't be, I mean..."

"Come. Sit down and you can hear a little story before you return to this one." He picks up the book and places it on her pillow. Patting the bed, he waits.

He shouldn't be in here—that's all she can think besides imagining some elaborate lure to impending death. But so far she sits next to him on the bed, or rather, a few feet from him on the bed.

"The princess Maleficent is so dead-set on destroying is blessed by fairies. I know, horrid things, but they've taken a shine to her, always have, and when she was born, they bestowed gifts unto her. Gifts of grace, beauty, charm. So you see, even when cursed, she shouldn't be lacking in the rescuer department and she'll have the wretched little sprites on her side.

"The sleeping curse," he continued, "is a weak curse. Not one of my better ones. Easily breakable. And, if the whole thing still upsets you, this little deal I have with Maleficent will cost her her life."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe not soon, maybe not until the far future, but once I scratch up just a few more things, I'll call in my favor to her, and that, to put it dramatically, will seal her fate."

"So you knowingly killing her is supposed to make me feel better?" she huffs.

"I'm at a loss to what you want then, Belle!" He stands, and hearing her name in such a way strikes her very core. It's not the casual address of asking what she's up to; it's, it's...passionate. He paces around the bed before she can even blush. "You don't like evil doing evil, and yet you don't like evil being vanquished!"

"It's not the evil being vanquished," she argues. "The way you're going about it is so self-serving and unfair."

"Unfair? Really? You read so many books, Belle. Tell me, did you read the stories all children hear, the ones about brave knights battling dragons?" She nods, afraid to breathe. "Always for a reason, isn't it? Saving a kingdom, rescuing a damsel..."

"Rescuing a true love," she says.

"Even true love is self-serving by your definition. And unfair? The knight invades the dragon's lair, does he not, and often catches the beast asleep. The element of surprise can do wonders, you know. The dragon sprays fire, that's certain, but the knight wears his armor, wields his sword and shield, and if he's very lucky, has true love's magic on his side, as you so idealistically pointed out. With all of that, is it a fair fight? Is it fair to leave such a creature as she alive so more babies can be cursed?"

She cannot speak. She chews on the inside of her cheeks, unable to look away from his eyes.

"That's just not how good does it," she whispers, gasping when he sets a knee back on the bed and leans forward, inches from her face.

"And I'm not good," he whispers. "Let evil fight evil so you can stay on that high horse of yours." He vanishes and Belle huddles into herself.

* * *

They eat in silence, playing with the potatoes and carrots in their stew. It's so dark in here with just the candles, she thinks. Why can't we have natural light coming in, she wonders, gazing at the covered windows. Right, because he's not good and told you so himself and wants to wallow in the darkness. That's why. She thinks on that while swishing a spoonful in her mouth.

One of the tan chickens flutters onto the table and scratches, head low, right in between them.

"Down! Down!" she shoos at it, succeeding in only ruffling its feathers.

"Down, Wendy," he sings to it, and Belle freezes. Wendy pecks at a crumb and clumsily leaves the table.

"You know their names?"

"Names are kind of my thing," is all he says before resuming his meal.

"Do you like lemon tarts?"

"Is that an apology?"

"It was a peace offering," she snaps. No more fear, she decides. If he planned on killing you, he'd have done it the minute the chickens came into the house. He likes the challenge, and, she can't believe the words enter her head, he likes me.

"Peace from a cheap and easy tart? When has that ever happened?" He throws in a snaky giggle for extra depravity. She scrunches her mouth, rolling her tongue for some dirty retort to come, something scandalous.

"My apologies, Rumpelstiltskin. I'll offer you something with a little more air and fluff since that's all you can handle." Not bad, Belle, she thinks, stifling a proud grin in favor of a smirk. Raking in the dishes, she starts for the kitchen.

"Not too much dough in the back area now. I can't stomach a fat lump," he calls after her, enticing her to shake her head and roll her eyes.


	18. Fall

Lemon tarts do have a way of mellowing the savage beast, he thinks at the spinning wheel. Days passed and the flirtation with being able to have conversations with his princess-maid ebbed. The exchanges for the last week were brief, observational, domestic in the way a newlywed couple hopes never to be.

"Why do you spin so much?"

Her voice captures his attention like a song not heard in years.

"Sorry," she says, mistaking his silence for contempt. "It's just that you've spun straw into more gold than you could ever spend."

"I like to watch the wheel, helps me forget," he says more to himself. Indeed the busy repetition of it appeals to a tormented mind, but he never gave it any conscious contemplation before.

"Forget what?"

"I guess it worked," he quips, tossing in a laugh for good measure. Her laughter, although quiet, fills the room like the tinkling of a bell, so he spends a moment regarding her. Back to normal, are we? Not normal, no, not ever normal, but back to the way it had once been? Willing her to look at him does nothing, so he goes over to her on the ladder and sees her tug on the cumbersome curtains.

"What are you doing?"

"Opening these. It's almost spring. We should let some light in."

In those shoes, he considers asking, but feels the situation is still too fragile. He would have to remember to magic her some boots for later if this warmer weather made her extra ambitious. Grunts grow more guttural with each tug until she half-faces him.

"What did you do, nail them down?"

"Yes." Don't lose your patience now, dearie. You've dealt with them closed all this time. He sees no reason why she should be straining.

She utters a snort of a kind and throws more of her weight into it than she plans. Within a split second, she's off the ladder and gathered in his arms.

His mind races in vain trying to answer the question of why he has barely touched her before today. The warmth, the lightness, the slightest hint of a scent—the sensations course through his limbs, like the rays of sunshine seeping into the room. It takes strength, true, unbridled strength, to even cock his head. Long lashes, almost an aqua shade of irises, a feline shape and brightness—it shouldn't feel new. He'd seen her eyes before, read them the same skillful, experienced way he read anyone else's and yet...so new, so dizzying.

"Thank you," she says, her chest heaving, the heat from her rising. Fear, nothing new about that in eyes, but then they darken with, with, something unsettling, to be sure.

He'd have dropped her had he held her a moment longer anyway. She finds her footing and apologizes. Refused to apologize earlier and now apologizing for his heart racing as if to compensate for lost time...

"No matter," he coughs after a long while, his vision narrowing on the spinning wheel.

"I'll just put the curtains back up."

"Oh, er, there's no need." He wonders if he's shaking. "I'll get used to it." Don't look back at her, he warns himself, flexing his hands in hopes that will stop the tingling. By the end of the day, she will have boots in her wardrobe.

* * *

**A/N: I know many fics put this much earlier, but that might just be a difference in interpretation. Hope you don't mind that I saved it for now.**


	19. Falling

She cups the soil in her hands and lets some of it sift through her fingers. Flowers, as promised, she thinks, grabbing the packets of seeds. Quite the assortment, zinnias, wormwood, rosebay rhododendron, and ranunculus. Let's see, she thinks, remembering one of her more elderly governesses whose lessons always took place outside in the gardens. Listen to them speak, child, she'd say. The flowers speak their own language to anyone willing to listen. Zinnias, remembering those not here. Wormwood, absence. Rosebay rhododendron, danger. The ranunculus, so round and swirled like a miniature rose...dazzle. Dazzled by charm.

She shakes her head and plants those first, hoping for a wide array of color soon. The wormwood next, she decides, crawling over to make a new row. The zinnias next, and she plants the rhododendron in the very back, since it is far too obvious any climber venturing up here for deal or adventure should expect danger.

The cold air still nips at her, the winter wind slicing at her face, so she keeps her cloak on, hoping the weather will not take a turn for the worse. Sunlight shines down, a cold wintry sun, but maybe with just the right amount of water and love...a bird flies down near her, dancing around in hopes of catching a few dropped seeds.

"They are extra, after all," she says to it, holding out her hand and letting the contents drop to the ground. "Help yourself."

The little bird, gray and yellow, chirps a song to her before flying away. She catches herself waving goodbye to it. She stoops down again to pick up her tools and places them in the watering pail. Sniffling, she wonders how long she's been outside. Batting her eyelashes to exercise her drying eyes, she hurries back into the house, her body waiting to be inside before shivering.

Maybe it's from the work, maybe it's from when...from earlier, or maybe she's just in a mood, but she closes her eyes and hums to herself, just a soft little love ballad her father used to sing when moving from one room to another. The familiarity of it and the heat from the nearest fireplace pull her lips into a smile. The next few hours are hers, chores done. It's almost worth swaying, but she fights the urge and does her best to keep half her brain anchored in reality since chicken droppings or some fragile thing could obstruct her route to the library.

She finishes the song but restarts it just before she opens the library's door. Her jaw drops, song paused, at the sight of new books on the shelf. Running to them, she counts as she goes. Fifty. Fifty new books with hard covers and rich, starchy pages. Picking one up without bothering to look at the title, her fingers dance through the pages, and again with a second one she picks up. Some fiction, some non, some long, some short—a stunning display, and more books than her own home had ever had.

Giggling like a child, she picks each one up and rubs the spine before opening it and caressing the first page. Her mind swims against the current at what to read first. A small note flutters to the rug when she picks up the last one.

_Will be gone on business. Back tonight. Enjoy the gift._

A gift? All of them? Her hand flies to her mouth and palms it, afraid to unleash a laugh. The last book then, she decides, and curls up in the high-backed chair. Thank you, she mouths. Thank you so much.

* * *

**A/N: The little tune Belle hums in this chapter is meant to be Fleetwood Mac's "Songbird," but you're the reader and hence your interpretation is what goes! And what respectable Disney princess DOESN'T talk to animals? Again, thank you for all the reviews (hope to get more), and I do not own this show. Wish I did.**


	20. Touch

**A/N: You guys are great!**

* * *

Damn peasant, he thinks, the mud from the melting snow slowing his pace. Calling for him so late that he misses dinner and then tromping back through this mess—exhaustion is what keeps him from magicking himself home. When they have nothing to give but themselves, well, no respectable Dark One can resist a deal, although he feels filthier than usual, and it's not from rolling around in the hay or mud up to his knees.

He shouldn't imagine Belle in such a way, not when some nameless, strike that, some-named-but-otherwise-insignificant peasant requires his...attentions. He shouldn't be pretending it's her and that he can touch the softness of her skin, feel her writhing and gasping beneath him. Invites trouble, all of that, and besides, it would just take fraternization with the help too far. And to think he'd welcomed going out before, eager to leave the house and clear his head. Food and the spinning wheel sound like the perfect end to all the rot.

At last he passes the fledgling garden and comes up to the front door, scraping his boots against the edge of the steps. No place like home, he thinks with an ironic tilt of the head. Dark, silent...

"You're back!"

Why? Why, on the gods' green earth is he holding her again? With her arms around his neck? Is this a dream? Minnie flaps her wings at him and chicken-marches on her way, Bianca and Lilo close behind. No. Real. All too real.

"Sorry," Belle says, wrapping her shawl tighter around her after she releases him. "It was just so, so quiet, here, by myself."

"It's quiet every night," is his answer, although it takes several heart thumps to mutter it.

"Yes, but, I've never slept alone anywhere before and, oh, your boots!"

What the hell is all this, he feels like screeching up at the gods. His maid, in her nightgown, hair unkempt and cascading down her back, is rushing to the nearest basin to care for his boots and it's, see, he's so disoriented he can hardly find the clock...one in the morning. She returns with a damp rag in hand, kneels, and starts scrubbing his boots before he can even take them off.

"Belle."

"Sorry," she says again. "I was...it's late. I don't know what I was doing." She laughs at herself and looks at the rag as though it was a foreign rodent. "You don't want to just stand there after being gone for so long. Need I hear how it went, or are the details too gruesome?"

"Too disgusting," he says. So true.

"I was afraid you were taking someone's baby or something like that."

"That's not such a popular one anymore." He notices her shudder and it about snaps him in half. Want, so much want, and now shame. "Power is, it's an addictive thing."

"I'm sure it is," she says so flatly he can't tell if she's irritated or understanding. Or somehow both.

Well, he would not explain such a weighty concept to a measly caretaker so late at night, not without rehearsing and conjuring the best possible words to use. It was the only way anyone understood.

"Did you know wormwood is meant to symbolize absence?" she asks.

"What is this, a riddle every night before bed now? I submit to you, 'why is a raven like a writing desk?'"

"It just seems something is absent in your life. Power just seems like a costly thing."

"Yet there are those who must wield it. Your own family, for instance."

"It seems to me," she says with an inhale, "the best of those who possess power took it on with some reluctance. I should go on to bed." Forcing a smile at him, she adds, "Thank you. For the books. They're absolutely lovely."

"You're welcome."

"And I'm sure I'll think about ravens and writing desks tonight," she adds, glancing back at him once more before trotting up the stairs. Good thing, he thinks, because that's far from what he'll be thinking about tonight.


	21. Trust

A fortnight has passed since she made a fool of herself at the front door late at night, she recalls, trying to stitch the same design as the illustration in the book. She possesses enormous amounts of patience and so believes taking up embroidery will be a diverting form of self-improvement. Before, she'd only sewn buttons onto shirts or a patch on one of Gaston's capes when he asked, commanded, she mend it. "Practice for when we're married," he'd said with an expression Belle didn't recognize then, part grimace, part hunger. A jet black patch the size of an apple on his cape of crimson silk hadn't warranted the same expression.

"What's funny?" Rumpelstiltskin asks from his chair, a book in hand for the evening.

"Just a memory," she says, pulling the needle through. A single hard rap at the door thunders throughout the house. "Are you expecting someone?"

"Probably just someone desperate," he sighs, heaving himself up from the chair. "All the same, dearie, upstairs with you if things begin to sound grim." Flashing a grin at her, he answers the door. Poking her head out, all she can see is the fluttering of a shadow, like wings, up in the air. He holds a small piece of parchment and turns with a smirk.

"What was that?" she asks.

"This?" He whips his arm out causing the parchment to flick. "This, dearie, is notification Maleficent's little spell has worked, courtesy of her raven."

"Worked? So then the young princess is..."

"Merely asleep, and in this kind of sleep, the pure of heart don't have much to fret over. But you and I know what Maleficent doesn't and so she thinks she's won and is hosting a little get-together for the forces of evil." She blinks, the only meaning coming to her mind too ridiculous to say out loud. "A celebration."

"That's an invitation then, to a party?" Her stomach debates whether to churn up a laugh or dinner.

"It is indeed, a ball. Mine...and yours."

"What?"

"Well if I go by myself it will seem like I'm there on business and not pleasure," he scoffs.

"I thought you didn't like her."

"I don't. Few do, but they'll arrive in droves to avoid making her mad. You know how she feels about spurned etiquette and all. There is something I wish to confirm and, well, I guess I just want to taunt her a little, so I'm going and so are you."

"Out of the question."

"It's not a question," he says, beginning to look dangerous. "You serve a purpose in going."

"Which is?"

"To teach me to dance."

Too much for one evening, she thinks, holding her hands up to reorder time and ingest the last five minutes. Dancing, with him, at a function with rituals only her nightmares had any inkling of—a dream. You've dozed off, Belle. Time to wake up. But everything is exactly the same, and the structure of the household being what it is, she supposes she'll be going one way or another. But...

"You know how to spin straw into gold but you don't know how to dance?"

"And you know how to dance but not how to spin straw into gold. We could run around that circle all night," he says with a shrug. "Would you make a deal with me?"

"What's your proposal?"

"Simply that I've noticed what chore you put off the most."

"I complete my chores, thank you."

"Yes, but imagine an existence, if you will, without being on your hands and knees scrubbing the floors." His hands provide needless flourish. It's already tempting. "It wouldn't take much effort to bewitch the floors to stay clean, maybe a little time, but not effort. No grout to scour, no crawling around like a vixen wiping up droppings...although the view is nice and it's really time the chickens went back outside."

Blushing, she considers.

"This party," she says, making sure to look weary. "It's just a regular party, isn't it? No...no...you know?"

"I'm afraid I don't, dearie. Enlighten me."

"No drinking blood or summoning up the dead or anything like that?"

He giggles, that impish one that should chill her bones but brings sweet relief now. Exhaling, she blushes more.

"Do all these heroes people speak so highly of go about rescuing every single minute? Then why should a villain never have some time off? It's a ball, dearie, and not unlike the countless ones I'm sure you've been to. So." He extends his hand. "Being my Plus One in exchange for floors so clean we could eat off them?"

"Deal." They shake hands. Adventure, that's what you wanted, she thinks. Brave, that's what you want to be.

* * *

An empty hardwood room serves as a ballroom, one Belle never bothers to clean, which is a shame, she thinks. The elongated windows frame the walls, bordered by royal blue drapes. During the day, light should pour in, but then pianos or harps or even a music stand should be in the room, too. Just them, a waltz starting with a snap of his fingers.

Hands entwined with his other one on the small of her back ought to be hair-raising, she thinks, and while her heart is pounding to the point she can hear it, it's not. It's...not calming, certainly, but there is a sense of inevitability with it, that it makes sense.

"One, two, three," she counts, ignoring the feeling, ignoring how easy and comfortable it is, and watches his legs. He leads by instinct—she just knew it wouldn't take long for him to catch on. All that is left is to keep them on count.

"You're doing so well I'm not sure if our original deal is still fair," she says, knowing it could mean being back on the floor scrubbing. Honesty can be a curse.

"Ah, we'll see, won't we? Might have to trip here or there."

But he doesn't. It's more natural than anything she's done here, and at the same time it's in preparation for...her face falls. She looks down at the ground. Terror replaces the warmth before the song even finishes, forcing her to miss a step.

"Why the long face, dearie? I thought I was doing well."

"It's not that," she whispers, voice shaking. "When, when we're there, you'll...since it's...being what it is, will you..." It's no use. The garbled, abstract fears in her mind render her tongue-tied. All it takes is one look at his eyes, those enormous eyes, to know he understands what she's asking.

"Yes," he vows, so low she knows it's a vow only to her. "Yes, I'll protect you."


	22. Cold Fading

**A/N: To the question about the illustration Belle was copying with her embroidery, I imagined a mountain scene. Figured that would appeal to her since she wants to see the world. Thank you for all the reviews so far! You guys are great.**

* * *

He enters the house, letting in a burgeoning spring sun, imagining the aroma the eventual flowers will bring. Already he's overheard a few "customers" who never outgrew talking with no one around to listen reassuring themselves that perhaps their next several minutes won't be so bad.

She's placed a vase of roses, a burgundy, bloody hue, on the foyer's table and he's not quite sure just where she scrounged those up, but he decides not to give it much thought. His mental efforts narrow in on why she is washing the windows wrapped up in her cloak and still shivering. He makes sure to close the doors behind him, before a crisp gust of air chills her more.

"I'm not sure those flowers will last out there," she says, half to him, half to herself.

"Why on earth are you so covered up?"

"It's drafty in here," she says with a shrug, trying to stifle another shiver.

"It's a castle." It wasn't nearly so drafty the night she'd all but flung herself into him, but he banishes that memory.

"You should consider another property." Finally turning to look at him, he can't help but smile when they reach eye contact. "A modest little cabin somewhere." A dreamy expression covers her face. "Small places are easier to heat...and cheaper."

"Not that I have to worry about that."

"Not that you have to worry about that," she repeats, resuming her washing and starting to hum.

Perhaps when it is all over, he thinks, when everything is the way it should be and all these ridiculous deals have finally come to achieve something—yes, going to a modest little cabin somewhere with her sounds so idyllic he broadens his smile.


	23. Heat Rising

"...so by then everyone was covered in flour and poor Maudie, she was raised in a superstitious household, swore up and down to Father and everyone the place was haunted," she laughs on their walk of the grounds, cloaked, of course. The sun warms the air and the ground during the day, but at dusk, when night falls so soon after dinner still, winter can still be felt. But he likes to walk at this time and she likes watching her vapors swirl into the air. Silence normally does not bother her, but tonight, something is different, and she can't be sure what. Yes, she can, she blushes, those blasted books with the pictures must be what's to blame for a number of provocative dreams as of late. They should be making her feel awkward, elusive, but instead, she only feels a great barrier exists between them.

"You know," she adds. "I bet you have a thousand more stories than I do and I rarely get to hear any of them."

"You don't like hearing about deals."

"No, true, but..." She bites her lips and creases her forehead to the point she feels discomfort. "Wasn't there anything you did before?"

"I spun," he answers after several seconds with wistful eyes. "I think we should get in now, don't you, dearie? Don't want to catch a chill, do you?" She feels his hand on her back through her cloak, heating her so much the very notion of catching a chill is laughable.


	24. Prying

**A/N: I've had lots of questions about the upcoming ball. There are only 4 chapters left, so, yes, it is on its way. I'm so glad everyone is so eagerly anticipating it and for the interest you all have in my story. I really appreciate it.**

* * *

He spends the days avoiding her. He's memorized her chore routine, so he evades her during the mornings. She also doesn't go into his personal chambers, now a haven or a prison depending on how he feels at various moments.

_"Papa, if I find a way for you to get rid of the power, a way that doesn't kill you or hurt me, would you do it?"_

He hears Bae's voice so often in his head, he's not surprised to hear it now, but the words...he remembers that deal. It's his punishment to remember that broken deal every second for the rest of this infernal, condemned existence until someone plunges that dagger into him, and, gods help him, that's still not enough to just go ask Regina to do it. Bae first. Find him first. At any cost. Pay any price. So why does the boy's question visit him now? Because he's close to giving up? No. No, failure doesn't faze him anymore. If one concoction doesn't work, he tries another, gathers what he can, steals, wheedles, and deals to procure the most powerful substances in the world. He refuses to give up on his son. But then why else revisit that question? Only a nagging idea at the utmost bottom of his heart seems to know, so he buries it more, and will fight it whenever it tries to claw its way up.

A sound calls his attention out of himself. Sitting up, he hears it again and follows it, alarm washing over him.

Her room isn't that far from his, but the door is closed and he won't go in there anymore, not since it gave her such a turn before. But that doesn't mean he can't lean an ear to it and decipher what he can.

Crying, as he feared. Muffled sobs as though she's weeping into her pillow. He doesn't think it's about the encroaching date of the ball. A gentleman would leave it alone, he thinks, never letting on he listens at doors. And perhaps a more princely man would knock and inquire, but he is not that either. So he will bide his time.

* * *

He stares at her while she serves dinner, a hard stare. She doesn't react and, in fact, seems to be back to her old self, albeit a more subdued, grayer version of herself.

"What would you be doing in your village right now?" he pries. He waits as she swallows and sets down her spoon.

"Oh. We would, we would probably be visiting my mother's grave," she blurts and inserts more food into her mouth. He stares more. It takes little prompting. "She died around this time when I was a child, so we always go to her grave."

"And put down flowers?"

"No, it's usually too cold for flowers. We string beads around it." She bats her lips with her napkin. "I just hope..." She looks up at him and then at her plate. Go on, he wills. "I just regret not being able to be with my father this time, making sure he's all right."

Depressed Belle won't do, he decides. Something has to be done about it or, or the house will most certainly explode. Mercifully, an idea crops up into his head.


	25. Not Prying

Rain just a few degrees from being snow. She shivers and wonders if the seeds will make it through winter's death throes. But now is not the time to idle away, she tells herself. She's seen the mess the girls and Arthur made in one of the sitting rooms—feathers everywhere, throw pillows torn, and droppings. Oh, she's positive there are at least a million droppings. She may not have to wipe up any off the floor now, but rugs are another matter. She grabs a basket and tosses in a needle with a spool of thread, plenty of rags, a horsehair brush, scissors, and anything else that might possibly be useful. With the mop inside the pail, she picks it up by the handle and charges into battle.

It's a small room and yet it takes an hour to fix. On her side halfway under the sofa, she rakes in the marbles that had rolled underneath.

"Arthur, you're a terrible ringleader," she admonishes. He shakes his comb at her. "I'm serious. You're supposed to keep them in line." She doesn't know if that's true or not, but she's decided it will be in this case. "You have to take your...erm, love affairs elsewhere." Arthur squawks and continues his loafing. She plops onto the sofa and begins to stitch the pillow.

"What happened in here?" Rumpelstiltskin asks her from the doorway, cloaked and back from his work.

"The chickens were a little, a little rowdy."

"I'm gone for half a day and miss a chicken orgy. The house just has a different atmosphere with you."

Belle blushes at the absurdity of it. If anyone had told her before she would be having this discussion, she'd have suggested he or she seek help.

"Leave that." He flails his hands at the pillow and for a moment, she believes he's fixing them for her, but it's just awkward hand-waving. "You can come see my latest acquisition."

Holding her breath, she tries not to cringe as she follows him out back through the dining area to his workspace. It doesn't surprise her she's able to enter this once. He opens a hollowed-out tome and reveals a crystal.

"What is it?"

"This can show you whatever you wish to see. With no one interfering," he adds with a certain contempt. Her reflection in it is distorted given the crystal's shape. Distorted and pinkish. "You don't want to give it a go?"

"Where did you get it?"

"Oh, here and there. By and by. If you didn't want to catch a glimpse of your family..."

"Yes! Thank you! Is..." She cradles the crystal in her palms. "Is it good magic?"

"Enchantments like this can be used for good or evil," he says. "But there is no curse on it, if that's what you mean."

"What's your price?" she is sure to ask in spite of a feeling there won't be one.

"Cleaning up chicken droppings isn't enough?" He leaves her alone with it, understanding privacy, she hopes.

"I'd like to see my father, please," she addresses it, her lips pressed together in anticipation. A small image appears. She recognizes the robes and throne of her father, the bags under his eyes as it focuses in on him.

_"It's still too dangerous, Sire," she hears someone say. "We'll have to wait until more of the ice melts before we can even think of scaling the mountain."_

_ "There must be something we can do."_

_ "Sire, speaking truthfully." Ah, it's Gerald. Always truthful, reluctantly truthful. "We're lucky to have anyone willing to scale the mountain at all for this. Many would rather die."_

_ "No more." Her father's voice shakes. "We'll have to wait for spring thaw then." He slumps on his throne, a hand over his face. Even though it's muffled, she can hear him moan her name. I'm here, she wishes to answer. And I'm all right. _

_ "Your Highness." It's Gaston. So statuesque and pretty, she thinks. "I saw Gerald just now. Does that mean we're ready to...?"_

_ "Not yet, my boy," he sighs. "We must hope Belle can hold on for a little longer."_

_ "This is outrageous!" He slams his fist down on the table and even though she is miles and miles away, she jumps. "Isn't there anyone more powerful than he? Someone we can convince to go head to head against him?"_

_ "Magic got us into this mess, Gaston. It will not get us out."_

_ "And in the meantime, what becomes of the kingdom? What becomes of our arrangement? Do I hold on a little longer too, or is our contract null and void?"_

_ "That contract you so lovingly refer to is my daughter, and I'll not have you speak of her that way. She's a hero!" There is a beat. "Perhaps you should go and seek your fortune."_

_ "What? That's it then? Even if she's retrieved?"_

_ "You think I like having her gone?" her father thunders at him. "You think I care right now about your petty dissatisfaction when my child isn't safe at home with me? The only way you'll ever marry her is if she'll have you, and she's no fool."_

_ Belle's eyes widen. _

_ "I'll have Belle for my wife," Gaston says, shaking a deliberate finger at her father. "Make no mistake about that!" He turns to go, collides into the table's edge, and curses at it. "There's a table there!" he screeches._

The crystal darkens, everything in it fading, leaving Belle frozen. So frozen she nearly drops the crystal. She catches it and staggers, closing her eyes and planting her feet for balance. She'd always known, always had a feeling around Gaston—that the poetry he recited to her did not have his heart behind it, that his silence when she talked wasn't listening but disinterest, that the vengeful way he spoke of anyone who presumably wronged him was more than temporary anger. Placing the crystal back into the book, her knuckles press against her mouth until she feels physical pain. Rushing out of the room, she bolts into the kitchen, fills the basin with the hot water on the fire, and scrubs dish after dish.

He enters, looking as bewildered as she's ever seen, so she knows he wasn't listening. She watches out of one eye as his mouth falls open and shut, debating what to say, if anything. All he knows is that she didn't like what she saw, and that's all she really feels like confiding at the moment. Right now, she must concentrate on scrubbing off every remnant of food and every little germ or she will go mad. Choosing not to speak, he takes the first dish that she just rinsed off, and dries it, patiently playing with the towel while waiting for the next one.


	26. Dreams

**A/N: A big gush of gratitude to everyone who has reviewed. I don't usually get a lot, so it's always amazing to hop on here and be blown away. I had hoped this would be able to last through 30 Sept when the premiere is scheduled, but it doesn't look like that is going to happen. So I'm not only grateful for your reviews, but your love for the show. I feel like it's something that was custom-designed for my own interests and tastes, but I can't be the only one who feels that way. So thank you for giving this show the strong fandom that it needs.**

* * *

It's becoming a struggle to even think around here, he mouths, dressing for the day. Belle floods his mind, his dreams now. Can't be good. Not at all. Sweetness, innocence, purity—a girl like her should most decidedly not be thought of the way he often catches himself thinking. He stares at the door that will lead out into the hall, which will lead down the stairs, which will lead down into the dining hall where she will be, glowing from kitchen heat and her own radiance. She'll serve up eggs and maybe some toast, all so conversational and friendly it will make his head spin. You can magic yourself out, he offers himself. Where, is the question. Moreover, he's somewhat sure he wants his head to spin. A little. Livens up the place.

* * *

"So how will this Ursula even be able to go?" She's obsessed with the details of this ball, no matter how many times he reminds her he is not the one hosting it. Refusing to believe he could be ignorant about anything would ordinarily be flattering, but he knows her too well by now. She has taken "knowledge is power" to heart and is gathering up not petty details, but survival tips.

"She's able to turn into a human. I thought you knew that. But she likes to wear shells as jewelry, so that might help you spot her."

"And you said some silver keeps goblins away?"

"That's werewolves, and as far as I know, only the biggest, baddest one will be in attendance." He pauses, wondering why that forehead wrinkled in thought holds his gaze. "Studying for a test, are we?"

"That's actually a good idea," she says, finally sitting down and picking up her fork.

"Wasn't serious, dearie. The trolls might wallop you if you show too much familiarity." Now, that was a mistake, he realizes, seeing her pale. "Did you forget hyperbole?"

"Sorry," she blurts. "I should make myself a test." Setting down her fork, elbows on the table, her hands slide up into her hair. "What if the Pied Piper plays something while I'm there? All the rest of you have magic...I'll have to look up more about him. Although the Blind Witch doesn't sound too hard to avoid...and, what's the pirate's name...Captain Hook...he might be a good one to mingle with..."

"He does like attacking children, though," he says, grinning as his comment destroys her brainstorming. Her head sinks lower. Has she forgotten? Or does she doubt? Remind her, he urges himself. Remind her you'll be there and you'll not let any spook or sprite touch a hair on her head if they mean her anything but good will.

"You know, if you act as though you're having a good time, they will probably leave well enough alone."

"You think so?" Her head perks up, eyes glittering with hope. Good thing he told the truth. Flashing the brightest smile he's seen since he danced with her the other night...gods, that must be responsible for all this pent up...frustration, he would call it. "You're in an awfully good mood."

"Am I?"

"That's quite the smile there," she says, so gentle and genuinely happy to see someone else happy, he can't bear to spite her by frowning. But he neither confirms nor denies being in a good mood.

"I'll need my coat pressed for tonight. Unless you'll be too busy cramming for your test?" He gives her a challenging expression, to which she responds in kind.

"You watch, Rumpelstiltskin. I'm going to know more about every dark creature in the realm than even you."

They finish breakfast in a comfortable silence and all too soon, she's clearing the dishes and heading towards the kitchen.

"Don't spill," he teases to her.

"A klutz? Is that what you think of me?" she teases back.

"Oh, you don't want to know what I think of you, Belle."


	27. Nightmares

**A/N: Hi! Just wanted to remind people that there will be one more chapter after this one. I don't know when I will post it, some RL things are happening right now, but it shouldn't be more than a week. I know a lot of people were looking forward to this chapter, so I didn't want to keep you waiting any longer.**

* * *

For a brief moment, her fingertips on the knob, she braces herself for discovering all his dead wives. Then, holding her breath, she enters his chambers for the first time to find that coat. Just a room. She sighs. No corpse in sight, not even a spider. She does need to sidestep around a few shards of glass, though, underneath a circular mirror where she catches a dozen broken reflections of herself. A blanket is rumpled on the floor, fallen from where it covered it up, she thinks. Shaking her head, she opens the wardrobe and sifts through the contents, her eyebrows straightening at the coat's absence.

She scans the room and finds a chest at the foot of the bed the only logical alternative. She kneels and flips up the lock. Trinkets lay inside, the only garments a blanket or...close it, she commands herself. But the lid stays open and her eyes continue to stare. An antler, a humble assortment of wooden spoons, letters. You have to close the lid now, she thinks, but can't bring herself to do so. Instead, she unfolds the parchment of one of the letters, expecting maybe some adolescent love poem.

It is a row of crooked numerals, written in a shaky, uncertain hand, like that of a child. Unfolding the one under it reveals a backwards "B" with "A" and "E" after it. Making sure she folds them with reverence, she sets them back on some linens. She picks up a green vest, a man's, judging by the side the buttons are on, but such a small size. It had been next to a set of boots, good-sized, but to where there was still growing to do.

She's heard the stories. The Dark One is not above using unborn babies as bargaining chips, but she'd never heard about him keeping one for himself. But the alternative would mean...she doesn't like to think about it, how it's so easy to imagine him as always being the Dark One, of being here since time began, the antithesis of wizened beings on the side of good. She knows that at some point his life was different, how, she isn't sure, but he is a man, only functionally immortal, and now it seems he was a father.

She closes the chest and spies the coat out of the corner of her eye, strewn over the bed post. Now's not the time to ask about it, she decides, not tonight being so crucial for him for some reason.

* * *

She wears a small amethyst pendant with her silver gown, meant to lend strength of will, although she never believed in any of that before. Magicked onto a path, they follow it up on foot, cackling and banshee-wailing audible even from here.

"Not anxious to have the Big Bad Wolf dance with you?" he asks.

"I didn't choose this gown because it's pretty," she says, noticing amusement on his face.

Maleficent's fortress towers over them, black stone half-shrouded in a green mist. It looms over a cemetery on a rocky bluff just a few feet short of being a mountain. The path ends at a massive door with a pointed arch.

"Quite a grip you have there." She looks down at where her nails are digging into his arm. Faint tapping is all around, unseen things crawling up the castle walls, hidden in shadow. She prefers to think they are spiders, lizards, maybe, something she could see any day. He opens the door without touching it, no one there to greet them. On her tiptoes, she tries to take in the surroundings, but a thud throws her off-balance. The ground shakes. Again. And again. So steady, like footsteps, she thinks.

"Fee Fi Fo...hey! You made it!" a giant twice her height shouts, wiping some foam off his jet black beard before slumping to the ground with a loud thud. A few branches of the gnarled trees on the grounds fall.

"Great, ten feet of drunk," Maleficent mumbles before summoning up a rather hospitable grin. "Evening. Glad to see you made it. Who's this?"

"I'm Belle, er, Mistress. Daughter of King Maurice." Incredulity responds.

"Oh, the maid. Well, there's some brandy over at the table there, unless you would prefer some milk?" she asks her, widening her eyes and slowing her speech down to how an energetic mother speaks to her infant. She continues to mingle, the train of her robes sliding over the stone floors of a courtyard. Stepping around the giant, Belle's jaw drops at green and yellow lanterns strung above the festivities, a bonfire dead center, and a minor key song played by invisible musicians in the corner. They weave around everyone, mostly arrayed in black, to a long table with little impish minions chasing each other around it in glee. Ravens perched on the gargoyles' heads glare down at it all.

"You weren't exaggerating," she breathes, accepting some punch. Red, but cranberry judging by the smell. Not blood. Brandy and other spirits are the worst idea possible on a night like this, she decides. "Everyone is here." A few transparent sheets float overhead. Sheets with faces. Sheets that moan.

"Not everyone," he says with a mix of pride and scorn. His voice pulls her away from staring the unknown right in the face. "Some are so consumed with their revenge they just can't take a night off. You know what we call those people, dearie?" She shakes her head. "I don't know either. I was hoping you could come up with something."

She laughs, but it's cut short by a tap on her shoulder. A sickly, skeletal figure with horns poking through purplish robes stands right next to her, its face a shriveled skull.

"Belle, the Horned King," Rumpelstiltskin says, his hand out as if it were any old introduction.

"Pleased to meet you." It takes a slow speed to keep her voice from shaking.

"Would you care to dance?" the Horned King asks in a raspy voice. Her nose twitches, a musty, unwashed odor emanating from him.

"Of course she would." And her master, her great protector, ushers her forward with a hand on her backbone. "Enjoy yourself, dearie. That's what I said earlier if you'll remember."

Yes, try to look like you're having fun. She gives her partner a smile and takes his long, talon-like hands. No different than any other dance partner. And this is supposed to be a night when they are having fun, too, no plotting or anything of the kind.

"How do you see?" she asks him, peering into his sockets.

"I have eyes, deep-set ones. Behold." They glow a faint red with tiny black pupils. She's sorry she asked.

"That's amazing. I've never seen anyone do that before."

"If only they could find what I so desperately seek," he sighs with such a melancholy tone, she expects trouble.

"Well, tonight's about enjoying one's self," she says quickly, jerking just enough to pull his focus back into the dance. "And you dance divinely."

* * *

Many of them don't seem to like her, or at least don't know what to think of her, but at least they're cordial. Her "plus one" is never more than an arm's length from her now, although he spends most of the party chatting with the others, fishing for what he wants, she knows. The trolls keep to themselves, off in a corner exchanging bones, femur-length ones. One of the many hooded figures sets down his scythe in favor of a violin. The minor chord alone reminds her of many an All Hallows' Eve. Zig, zig, zig—she finds herself swaying, slightly, to the ever-building melody. White skeletons pass through the gloom, running and leaping in their shrouds.

At last she can feel him near her, feel his attention on her. It feels like it's been ages. She scoffs at herself for missing someone who had never really been gone.

"Did you find out what you needed?" she asks.

"That and more." He sounds so pleased with himself.

"Then we can go home?"

"Home?" They share the same stillness as they did the day she fell from the ladder, such guarded optimism on both their parts she knows one of them will break it. "You're ready to go so soon, with this rousing tune playing?"

She has no time to answer, for he's whirling her around in a dizzying frenzy, joining other dancers in time with the manic, celebratory music. It's so surreal she is sure everyone would appear to be spinning around no matter what the composition. It heightens, percussion and violin at full climax, and she laughs and whoops with the others, swept up in the macabre splendor. She considers kissing him. She longs to kiss him. She longs for him and has done so for longer than she's realized. A veil has fallen and she feels stark naked. A wave of calm washes over her as she gazes at him as if for the first time Panting from the dance and her epiphany, she locks eyes with him.

"I..." She gulps, the applause and subsequent pause before another song letting her know the moment has passed and once again, she is the bumbling girl at a party in which she has no place. "I'm so glad you know how to dance now."

* * *

**A/N: The Horned King is a character from _The Black Cauldron _or _The Chronicles of Prydain _if you're more familiar with that. His appearance is based on the former only because I have not yet read the series, which I've heard is a lot better than the movie. Yeah, hope you got the same "Night on Bald Mountain" meets "Mos Eisley Cantina" vibe I had when writing it. Really boss Halloween party if you ask me. The music near the end of the chapter I had imagined is "Danse Macabre," so if you want to listen to that while reading, it might enhance the mood. The poem it is based on really made the chapter come together and I put a few lines into the text, such as the "white skeletons" descriptor and "the veil has fallen."**


	28. Love

He sits at the foot of his bed, again, staring down the door like it's a living enemy. All it really is is the gateway to the real enemy, he tells himself again, the forest of thorns leading up to the dragon. Instead of flames and snapping jaws, it inflicts upon him a warm, elated feeling that is only pleasant if he doesn't think about it for very long, and he must think about it for long.

He loves Belle. Once that burrowed in and made its way into his system like a tick, it at least explained everything, primarily this compulsion to give her what she wants, to go out of his way to give her what she wants, usually. Last night only became enjoyable when she was smiling, laughing, forgetting herself and the setting in favor of having a good time. It explained these last four months flying by, certainly.

But, with love and all the syrupy mess that it brings with it, regret is a side effect, this damn urge to make things right. She shouldn't be here. Not in the way she was brought here, anyway. The selflessness of love demanded he turn her loose and she return to her father and her village, knowing full well she would never come back. And who wants that? But denying her that, keeping her here ... Tea time. Pinching the blanket, he groans and prepares for...he doesn't know what.

* * *

"There you are," she says. "I haven't seen much of you today. I was afraid you were just as hungover as I'm sure all the other guests are."

"I'm surprised at you. I have single-handedly changed the course of history a hundred times over, transfigured and conjured beyond people's dreams, and you think it possible I could even get...tipsy?"

She shrugs.

"So then it's safe to assume you did not partake in the 'spirited' refreshments either?"

"Just the punch. I was afraid the others would turn me into a frog," she mutters, embarrassed. She paces around the table, to the window, and back. Frog curses can be easily broken with a kiss, and not even True Love's Kiss, he considers saying, but that may give her the wrong idea, the right idea, actually, but wrong. Very, very wrong. Kissing her would be the point of no return, would be most ill-thought, weak-willed, mind-blowing, absolutely-blissful action possible.

She props herself up on the table, looking almost coy as he sips, but she appears to be searching for words.

"Why did you want me here?"

"The place was filthy."

"I think you were lonely. Any man would be lonely."

He lets himself fall back against the edge of the table, right next to her.

"I'm not a man." And don't forget it, he chides himself. Whatever your pants are telling you. Belle looks away, some inner battle, the corner of his eye tells him. Coming right out and saying whatever she wanted to say would be far better than this, and it's not like her to hold back much.

"So I've had a couple of months to look around, you know, and upstairs there's clothing, small, as if for a child?" Oh. Oh, thank you so much for that, Belle, he thinks his entire head now feeling heavy. As if taking my heart isn't enough, you have to stick pins in it. "Was it yours or was there a son?"

But he can't say no to her. He turns so he can find her eyes, always so kind and curious it reassures him she has no idea how the whole situation torments him. "There was," he finds himself saying. "I lost him, as I did his mother."

"I'm sorry," she breathes, looking away again and biting her lip. "So, you were a man once, an ordinary man."

Ordinary. How he loathes and yet cherishes that word. He traces the chip in the cup, making a lap around the rim.

"If I'm never to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?" He's not sure he can stomach this, this sudden push. It's been four months of getting to know him, getting to know her, but they've never crossed the vague, ambiguous barrier made up of certain questions. And now she seems to want it to crumble into a million pieces. Why? His heart skips a beat right before his head wishes it could be cut out.

"Perhaps. Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses!" he hisses, standing, ready to win whatever game she's starting. Prompting after prompting, she only smiles at him.

"You're not a monster. You think you're uglier than you are. That's why you cover all the mirrors up, isn't it?" She gestures at the floor-length one in the corner. "Hmm?" One of the reasons, he thinks, unable to speak. Too many years of repulsion, fear, people refusing to look him in the eye begs to differ with her. Some have lost control of their bodily functions in his presence, others draw swords—she smirks and waits for acknowledgment for having the upper hand. And here comes what always follows, he thinks, a desire to reward her, to thank her, and that squirming inner conflict of whether to kiss the hem of her dress or shove the tablecloth away and have her on her back in seconds.

Pounding on the door composes him, and not a moment too soon, he realizes. A deal. A lowly traveler lulled into a false sense of hope from the flower sprouts out front is just what this day could use.

"I am Sir Gaston," he hears as soon as he magics the doors. Really? That's all? "And you, Beast, have taken..."

At least the dolt doesn't have to trudge his way back down the mountain, he thinks with a snicker. The long-stemmed rose at his feet doesn't move. Ah, brave soul, he eulogizes in his mind. Coming to rescue your intended just couldn't have gone worse. But find solace in that now you are travel-sized for her convenience.

"Who was that?" Belle asks when he returns.

"Just an old woman selling flowers," he lies, a little too calmly and a little too quickly. "Here. If you'll have it."

Delight. His favorite expression on her, aside from satisfaction. It's almost a coy look, very becoming.

"Why thank you," she says, even curtsying him. Giggling a little and smelling her flower, she heads over to take the shears. You can do this, he cheers himself. Let her go, clean the slate, and none of it will have ever happened. Of course, seeing her not quite so content might help.

"You had a life, Belle," he begins, his mind working at full speed. "Before...this. Friends. Family. What made you choose to come here with me?"

She stops in her tracks for a split second. He notices it only because he decides to sit.

"Heroism. Sacrifice." Her eyebrows are narrowed, the narrowing one does when really contemplating something that might have been felt, might have been known, but never acknowledged. And, as usual, she sees her train of thought through to the end with only his attention to prompt her. "You know there aren't a lot of opportunities for women in this land to show what they can do, to see the world, to be heroes. So when you arrived, that was my chance." She chooses a simple vase, probably the simplest in the whole collection, and comes back to the table. "I always wanted to be brave. I figured, do the brave thing and bravery would follow."

"And is it everything you hoped?" That's all you have to do, Belle. Say you're miserable and we can stop this, whatever this is.

"Well," she gives a shy laugh and hitches up her skirt to sit on the table close to him. Too close. Always too close. "I did want to see the world. That part didn't really work out." Shooting him that smile won't help anyone, dearie. "But I did save my village."

"And what about your betrothed?" Whose...he hoped feet...she had just snipped off. He could hear it now. She'd speak of her great love and how she'd looked forward to a wedding and then he would let slip some information that her would-be-groom wasn't the man she thought he was, not a man at all, and her fury would be her key out of here.

"It was an arranged marriage."

Damn.

"Honestly, I never really cared much for Gaston." Even now he can't stop grinning in spite of himself. No one, especially no dashing-but-brainless knight, had her heart, had her love. "I mean, to me, love is layered, love is a...mystery to be uncovered," she says, her eyes searing into him. "I could never truly give my heart to someone as superficial as he."

She's so beautiful. He's known that all along, of course. One does notice, but now, now she's so beautiful it aches to look at her and not touch her, to not scream out how much he wants her, how much he loves her. He'd do nearly anything to keep her, face nearly any obstacle, but he's not worthy of trying. Wretched creatures are meant to be slain so someone else can win the fair maiden's favor. Her staying is impossible.

"Oh, but, you were going to tell me about your son," she says, so sympathetic, so ready to listen. Her staying is impossible...unless she wants to.

"I'll tell you what. I'll make you a deal. Go to town and fetch me some straw. When you return, I'll share my tale."

She can barely comprehend it, giving him just the slightest moment of gratification. She blinks her eyes, shakes her head, and stutters the words.

"You trust me to come back?"

"Oh no. I expect I'll never see you again." It is a gamble, he knows, and one with the odds stacked against him. It must be her choice, but he knows what she will choose, what anyone would choose, so he can't fault her for it. He won't watch her go, so he rises and hurries into his workspace where she couldn't follow him even if she wanted. Work. That must be his life for however long it takes. There can be nothing else. He reminds himself of that at the same time he wishes, on the verge of praying, that she will return, that this will not be the last time he sees her. _There be none of beauty's daughters with a magic like thee._ _And like music on the waters is thy sweet voice to me. _There can be no one else, and yet there already is.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you so much to all the readers and especially the reviewers. I really had no idea how this story would go over. The italicized words are a snippet of Lord Byron's poem "There Be None of Beauty's Daughters," which is where I got the title. Um, I own nothing, hope you enjoyed it, and thanks again for all the comments, questions, praise, and support.**


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